


Cut the conversation, just open your mouth

by meeks00



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-05
Updated: 2010-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:03:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meeks00/pseuds/meeks00
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray leaves Brad a few voice messages. “I didn’t call just to leave you some gay-ass declaration of love or some shit like that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut the conversation, just open your mouth

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from “Fascination Street” by The Cure. For my dearest queeniegalore, who left that lovely song as a prompt. Not sure exactly how long phone messages can be, so let’s just say I used a bit of artistic license here. And I used the lyrics within the text, because they’re gorgeous.

_Cut the conversation,  
just open your mouth._  
— “Fascination Street” by The Cure

 

“I was drivin’ down Route 79, and I thought I saw this dude on a motorcycle that looks just like yours. I must’ve been high on your stupid muscle-building protein mix that day or something, but I followed that bike for about 20 miles or so past my exit for no reason whatsoever.”

Pause.

“Well, there was maybe a reason, but I didn’t call just to leave you some gay-ass declaration of love or some shit like that. I just — I almost hit the bike when I looked over because it was a chick, homes. Like, a super hot one. A gigantor chick too, since she was tall enough to almost look like you from behind.”

Pause.

“I mean, you just left, so I thought it could’ve been you. Maybe.”

Sigh.

“I guess could I write you a sappy letter, draw you pictures and stuff of our house and my dick or something, since you won’t get this message ‘til you’re back stateside. I just hate writing fuckin’ letters though — you know that. Anyway. That’s all. Don’t get fuckin’ shot.”

Beep.

“End of message.”

__

“Hey. Hey, Brad. So, Walt came to visit. I let him crash on the pull-out sofa, made him breakfast, let him drink the rest of your expensive-as-shit beer, and he goes and tells me I’ve turned into a fuckin’ Marine wife. You believe that shit, Brad? Here I am, tryin’ to be the best host ever, and he tells me I’m turning into some kind of Susie Rottencrotch!”

Muffled talk.

“Yeah, OK. No — not that weak-ass shit. Gimme the — that one. Don’t throw it! Ow, fuck. Thanks for nothin’, asshole.”

“Get it yourself next time then, fucknuts.”

“You think I can catch in the state I’m in? Walt, you must be more fucked up than I am. Get offa me. Get off!”

Laughter. Scuffling.

“Hey, Brad! Ray misses you so much. He’s _pining_ , man. He’s —

“— you shut the fuck up! Gimme that — ”

“— he’s cookin’ me your favorite meals and making me drink this disgusting protein milkshake shit and tryin’ to teach me to surf and — ”

Beep.

“End of message.”

__

“So. I maybe killed your fish. Uh. All 37 of ‘em.”

Pause.

“Oh yeah, there were about 37 because the fat one shat eggs into the little aquatic fern, and then it had tons of babies. I tried counting all of them, and I think 37 is right. Or maybe 1,000. But, uh, they all died, so I guess the total doesn’t matter. Sorry, man.”

Pause.

“Also, I sent you a letter. I drew you some fuckin’ amazing porno pictures of us with hearts over our dicks to sensor ‘em and everything. But if you just get an empty envelope, just imagine all of the awesome pictures I drew for you that those assholes who steal our mail are probably using as meat material. OK. Seeya.”

Beep.

“End of message.”

__

“Update: I had to add to the ‘Things Ray Owes Brad’ list on the fridge. In addition to owing you 37 (or 1,000) fish, a case of expensive beer, and 104 blow jobs for all of my past transgressions, I now owe you a new surfboard.”

Pause.

“Um. I love you?”

Pause.

“What the — well, hey there, buddy! I am…not doing anything. Definitely not leaving you another voicemail. I’m — I’m — just talkin’ to Hasser.”

Pause.

“Yeah, I tell Walt I love him. On a daily basis. Behind your back. Our friendship is strong like that.”

Muffled talk.

“Uh — of course. Let me just hang up so — leave it on? But — ”

“I think it will serve well as a bookend to the inanity that undoubtedly awaits me in my voicemail inbox.”

“What will? Oh. _Oh_. I see. Kinky.”

“You know, those pictures you drew somehow got through. I have to admit — you’re a better artist than I’d ever have thought to give you credit for. Those were some inventive positions.”

“Thanks. You gonna show me your appreciation now? Hey — are those — you kept my drawings? Even the one of the house? Aw, shucks, Brad. I didn’t know you cared!”

“Did you miss me?”

“I — you know I did. You know I — _Christ_. Keep doin’ that — ”

“Then cut the conversation, Ray.”

Moan.

“Just open your mouth. We have a few pictures to reenact.”

“Yes, sir.”

Heavy breathing.

Beep.

“End of message.”

 

**


End file.
